


Father of the Year

by ishafel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:43:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never won any awards for his parenting skills, but mostly he did okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father of the Year

They're on a road somewhere in the middle of northern Montana, miles away from anywhere and days too late for what John's after, and Dean suddenly throws up all over himself and the front seat of the Chevy. John's furious and disgusted both. He swears as he hauls the car to the shoulder, unbuckles Dean and pulls him into the grass. Dean's on his hands and knees throwing up and crying at the same time, and Sammy's in the back seat crying. John wipes off the seat and the dashboard as much as he can, with nothing but baby wipes and an old towel. He feels like crying himself.

He digs out a clean shirt for Dean and kneels beside his son. He misses Mary with every breath he takes, but he never misses her more than when one of the boys is hurt or sick. He isn't cut out for this, never really wanted it. If it'd been up to him, Dean would never have been born. But he was looking at Mary when she looked at the pregnancy test, and he knew better than to say anything, knew if she was choosing between John and the baby she might choose the baby.

In seven years he's come to love Dean and Sam both. It's only times like this that he regrets it a little. He offers Dean the water from Sam's sippy cup to rinse his mouth out with, and cleans his son up as best he can. "I'm sorry, Daddy," Dean says, "I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't," John says. "But you should have told me you were sick, Dean. I'm countin' on you to hold your end up." It comes out sharper than he meant it to, and Dean looks down and sniffles. He's sick and he wants his mom, a bed, and a bath, probably in that order. He doesn't need a lecture. It's not his fault that there are people dying because John can't hold his end up, can't be both parents, can't even pay attention long enough to realize his kid's been too quiet and too pale all day. Worst part is, when you have two kids and one of them gets the flu, you know that the other one will, and probably you will too.

He loads Dean back into the car, gives him a plastic bag in case he gets sick again. Gives Sammy a pacifier he's too old for and a stern glare that means shut up and has no effect at all on a two year old. The next town on his map is three hours out, and when he gets there he'll have to call Caleb and tell him he's on his own this time around.

It's after five when he pulls into Helena. Sam's eaten the last of the animal crackers, and Dean's only thrown up three times. He can get a hotel room and leave the sick kid by himself while he scrounges up dinner for the screaming one, or he can drag Dean to the diner next to the motel and eat quick. It turns out to be a moot point: the motel has a room, but it won't be clean for another hour.

It isn't until he's inside the diner and seated in a booth that he realizes how crowded the place is, and then it hits him. It's dinner time on a Sunday night, and this is the only joint in town. The restaurant's full of God-fearing, respectable people, dressed in their best, and all of them are staring at John and his kids.

John knows how they look, but he didn't really know until he saw the expressions on strangers' faces. They're all three of them filthy from the road, wearing dirty clothes, Dean's too small and Sam's too big, and neither of the boys' hair combed in the last week. Dean's eyes are red and his skin is grey, and Sam has a ring of pink juice around his mouth and a runny nose. John's been poor his whole life, but it was always an honest poverty. These people don't think he's a decent man down on his luck, a single father with two kids to support. They think he's trash, him and the boys both: a healthy, fit man in his thirties with no job, no house, nothing to his name but a twenty-year old Chevy.

John's suddenly ashamed. Sam and Dean don't usually look quite this bad. Usually they're clean and smiling, and that makes a hell of a difference. "Chin up, soldier," he says to Dean, who's slumped against the table looking miserable. He means it to be enncouragement, but it comes out more like an order. The effect on Dean is instantaneous: he snaps to attention, shoulders square, eyes focused. John reaches out to touch his cheek. "It's okay, buddy," he says. "I didn't mean it. I know you don't feel good."

"I'm okay," Dean says, and John recognizes the tilt to his chin. This is Mary's son, through and through. "You can count on me, Dad."

"I know I can," John says. "I love you, Dean-o."

"And Sammy, too." Dean says firmly, and John smiles and drops a kiss on Sam's curly hair.

Thing is, these people're mostly right about him. John's let a lot of things go, since Mary died. He saw people in Vietnam raising their families in the middle of a war: no food, no safety, no hope. Some of 'em did a better job than John's doing now. He looks at his boys, and he promises himself he'll do better. And mostly he does.


End file.
